


Vomit The Soul

by PaxVobis



Series: Hits Collect [1]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Bathrooms, Emetophilia, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gross, Hiccups, Hurt/Comfort, LSD, M/M, Oh Pickles, One Shot, Paranoia, Pre-Series, Teasing, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 08:25:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11376357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/pseuds/PaxVobis
Summary: Nathan flinched as a particularly violent retch tore out of Pickles’ throat, echoing in the bowl of the bucket and around the hotel bathroom with a fresh wave of acid gin puke stink.  He pouted at the drummer, the guy’s face hidden in the bucket as he shook, wrapping his arms around the steel as he held it close.  “Fucked up how so muchstuffcan come out of you,” Nathan grumbled idly, his voice sounding large in the space between them, and Pickles’ shoulders rose as if he was listening, “Y’know, you’re so fuckin’ tiny.  I dunno how all that shit fits in you.”





	Vomit The Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Slim Shady (NoraPenblood)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoraPenblood/gifts).



**_The fear of dying expired of life,_ **

**_to vomit the soul._ **

_-_ Cannibal Corpse

 

It was useless to call Offdensen anymore.  Nathan had exhausted that privilege to snappish remarks down the line, and anyway, it wasn’t like it changed things.  Just made Charles stand in their hotel bathroom and talk on the phone to someone else while Pickles emptied his belly, the manager’s voice echoing off the tiles over the occasional heave from Pickles.  The hollow sound of Charles patting Pickles’ back between wretches, cold and distant.  But he did nothing, basically, and that he had pointed out to Nathan last time – Pickles knew what to do, to get a bucket or a drain and use a dread to tie back the rest of his hair.  Just leave him to it.  Maybe keep an eye on him if Nathan was worried, so that he didn’t end up on his back and pulling a Hendrix.

Nathan was worried.  So here he was, sitting on the floor of their big hotel bathroom next to Pickles as the drummer, tripping balls, heaved into an ice bucket, crumpled on his knees under the searing bright fluorescent lights reflecting off the white tiles, listening to the vomit hit the bottom of the steel bucket and echo out in muted patters.  Nathan sat there with the cold tiling radiating through the pants of his jeans, his legs sprawled, and uselessly held a pint glass of water by, you know, just in case.  He’d given up on the _dude, you okay?_ s for now.  At least while Pickles was face-down, his hands white knuckled on the edge on the ice bucket as he battled to keep himself up, he couldn’t choke on it.

Nathan flinched as a particularly violent retch tore out of Pickles’ throat, echoing in the bowl of the bucket and around the hotel bathroom with a fresh wave of acid gin puke stink.  He pouted at the drummer, the guy’s face hidden in the bucket as he shook, wrapping his arms around the steel as he held it close.  “Fucked up how so much _stuff_ can come out of you,” Nathan grumbled idly, his voice sounding large in the space between them, and Pickles’ shoulders rose as if he was listening, “Y’know, you’re so fuckin’ tiny.  I dunno how all that shit fits in you.”

But Pickles had no answer, his shoulders dropping to another vicious, throat-shredding heave.  It sounded more painful than productive, y’know, like the worst was over.  When a minute went past with just trembling and Pickles’ heavy breathing in the steel, Nathan crawled onto his knees and bent over him, reaching out a tentative hand to rub his back.  The thin fabric of Pickles’ shirt clung to the thick glaze of sweat over his skin, alcoholic, barely scented.

“You done?” asked Nathan, leaning over to look at him, and Pickles slowly raised his head, his body shaking with the effort of holding it up.  His chin was streaked with clear, rancid orange liquid, stringing from his fat lips - bright from the acid burn against his blanched face – down into the pail, his eyes pink and watery, a ring of red around his face where the bowl of the bucket had pressed into his skin.  His lip trembled, hanging open with his narrow teeth peeking over it as he panted and looked up at Nathan sickly.

“Think... ss...” he breathed, and then his chest jolted with another heave, bobbing his stupid, toy-like head as his arms braced against the bowl.  But nothing came out, just curled his tongue in his open mouth, and Nathan frowned as he listened to the slime drip off Pickles’ chin and smatter into the bowl beneath him with the movement.  Pickles swallowed, his stomach giving a high pitched complaint at the abuse it had suffered so far, and, “Almost,” he managed, leaning his forearm against the bucket as he pulled it between his knees and sat back on his feet, rubbing his wet forehead against the sweatband on his free wrist unhappily.

Nathan let his hand lay heavily, dumbly, on Pickles’ back.  He could feel the involuntary shudders, coming in waves from Pickles’ core up over his shoulders and neck.  He knew what it was like to vomit, profusely, but not to be so small and so at the mercy of your sickness.  Pickles didn’t puke so much as puking happened to Pickles, like a natural disaster, a physical catastrophe that destroyed his body for hours at a time.  He couldn’t move, couldn’t walk.  Just realised from the first tongue of acrid bile that bubbled up into his gullet that it was coming, put back his hair, and braced himself for the storm.

Pickles swallowed, blinking blearily into the light.  He couldn’t speak so much with his throat raw and filling with saliva; Nathan could see the way it pooled in his slack jaw, his eyelids sagging with the stinging pain of his puking.  He gave a shrill gurgle that could have been, _almost_ , again, but was cut off with a short hiccup that bounced his head on his skinny neck like a pingpong ball.  Nathan felt it, offered the glass of water.

“No, man...” breathed Pickles, but hiccupped again.  Funny sound, like a little squeaky toy, the way it bubbled up his throat and eeked out his closed mouth.  Nathan couldn’t help the smirk, at his helplessness, the goofiness of his idiot doll face chirping like that.

Pickles grimaced back at him, his lips twisting with another hiccup.  “Don’t,” he warned, and Nathan sat back on his ass on the tiles, grinning at him as the drummer swayed and clung to the bucket.

“Sorry, man, I can’t help it,” he said around his smirk, Pickles glaring at him, his head bobbing with his stupid hiccups.  “Y’know what I mean.  You look fuckin’ _wack_ , man.”

“I do—” _– hic –_ “Naht.  Dude!”

“It’s cute,” said Nathan, grinning, and Pickles frowned toothily at him, his eyes burning.

“I do n—” _– hic –_ “—ahhht.” _– hic –_ “I do naht!”  _Hiccup._   The last one heavy and burping.  Nathan chuckled, patting Pickles on the back as his look of desperation grew.  His squeaks echoed in the bathroom, Nathan’s laughter rumbling beneath.  “I do naht!  I don’t!  Dude!”  But Nathan just kept laughing.

“This is gross.  Naht cute,” moaned Pickles, drooling down his chin, and rolled his red eyes up at Nathan blearily.  “Jesus, you’re naht gettin’ off on this are ya.  Get the fuck out of here.  I’m—” _– hic –_ “ _Fine._   Now.  I’m fine.  Fuck.  Oooh...”  And he held his head, covering his eyes against the shapes that lurched around him and he snorted the mucus back up the back of his throat.  “It’s fucked up.  I’m puking squares.  I’m puking... squares.  Dude.”

Nathan looked.  It was definitely not squares.  In fact, there wasn’t much solid matter in there at all, except for bile and what looked like a bunch of acid tabs.  Jesus Christ, Pickles, what a fucking lunatic.  Nathan was grinning, loved this fucking psycho, swallowed half a sheet for just a pub show.  Ketamine had been mentioned too.  “Yeah.  You’re, uh... pretty creative.  In your puking,” he rumbled, rubbing Pickles’ back, and the guy hiccupped demurely as he stared into his bucket.

“Dude... leave me... with my squares... dude.”   _Hiccup._   “We’re bondin’.”  Nathan rolled his eyes at the squeak, and pulled back a dread that had worked its way off of Pickles’ scalp to dangle over his face, slick with sweat.  He didn’t want Pickles to bond with his squares using, like, his fingers.  Or anything.  He didn’t want to, like, have to hose the dude down like Charles did.  That seemed like a bad time.  So distract him, easy enough.  The guy was flying, could barely concentrate on any space in front of him without the fractals coming up on him, his lazy eye trailing off into space.  He’d have no attention span whatsoever.

Pickles put his hand into the bucket, and Nathan snatched it, pulling it out before he could finger his own puke and putting it on Pickles’ head instead.  “No no no no.  Nah.  Pickles.  I’m stayin’ right here,” he declared, and Pickles whined uselessly, groping his dreads as he shivered there.

“Charles says I can’t leave ya, man,” said Nathan, patting Pickles on the back and feeling it lurch with his heavy hand, “You know, this is, like, part of my job, right.  Since he can’t be fucked doing it.”

“Don’t fuckin’ see—” _– hic –_ “—why.  Ugh.”

“Nah, cos...”  A broad, shitty smile cracked Nathan’s face as Pickles desperately tried to track him, unable to focus on the guy’s huge face as he leaned over him.  “You know, Pickles, Jimmy Hendrix _died_... from havin’ the hiccups, and goin’ to sleep.  And he died.  It’s true.”

“Ohhh?” came Pickles’ wobbly moan, and Nathan nodded.

“Yeah, it’s true.  I can’t let that happen to you, man, you’re like... you’re our drummer.  You know how hard it is to find a drummer without fuckin’, commitment issues, like in a hundred bands?  It’s true, can’t let that... happen to you, pal.”

“Ohh.”  Pickles stared at the tiles.  “I don’t wanna... _die_.”

“No.”

 _Hiccup._   “Naw...”

“Charles would be _pissed_.”

“I don’t wanna...” _– hic –_ “Die.  I don’t.  Fuck!” _– hic!_  Pickles stared in horror straight forward, holding his raw throat as the squeaks jogged his diaphragm.  “It keeps happenin’!”

“Yeah,” said Nathan, watching him with a broad grin, “Man.  That’s, uh.  You just keep hiccupping!  You’re fucked, dude.”

“I’m fucked!”

“We gotta do somethin’... stop the hiccups.”  Nathan looked around the bathroom curiously, and barely heard Pickles squeak:

“Stand on my heeed.”

But he did.  Nathan looked down at him, smirking at the idea.  “I think that’s a fuckin’, bad idea.  Standin’ on your head.”

“But how?!”  _Hiccup_.  “I gotta stop!  Oh nooo, I gotta stop!”  Pickles’ eyes grew watery, like he’d cry with fear.  Maybe he’d piss himself, thought Nathan, that’d be pretty funny.  Good thing they were in the bathroom hey.  He held up the glass again, and had... a thought.

“Dude, Pickles.  I know how, it’s a trick, right.”  Pickles was trying to hold his breath, failing as the hiccups bubbled out of his body again.  “No, dude.  It’s a trick.  Come on, I got it – the cure.”

“You _do?_ ”

“I do.  Look at me.  Yeah.  That’s it.  Right.”  Nathan had it, he really did.  He moved around so he was sitting in front of Pickles, looming over him even though Pickles was slumped on his knees and Nathan was on his rear.  “What you gotta do,” he said, holding Pickles’ unsteady gaze with a heavy, black-nailed hand on his shoulder, “Is you gotta drink this... cup of water.  _But_ – it’s a trick, right, you gotta hold your arms out, like this.”

Nathan held his arms out at his sides, and Pickles slowly copied him, his eyes frightened and rabbit-like with panic.  “Stuart taught me this.  You remember Stu?  Yeah, his mom died after all anyway.  Fucking gnarly.  Not from hiccups.  Or maybe... anyway.  Arms out like this... and I’m gonna give you the water.  You gotta drink it all with your arms out like that and then, your hiccups will be gone.”

Pickles looked at the pint of water, then at Nathan, and squeaked, “Really?”

“Really.”

Another look crossing, Nathan to the glass to Nathan.  To the glass.  Pickles gulped, his face stringing bile and drool down onto his shirt.  “Okey,” he whimpered, and Nathan smiled.

“Man.  I’m so proud of you right now.  You’re doin’ what’s best, for the band.  Man.”  He moved forward carefully as Pickles put his arms out, swaying like a broken clothesline in front of him, and held Pickles’ jaw still in a cupped hand as he raised the water.  “You ready?” he asked, and Pickles shuddered under his touch, his chin gooey with bile where it touched his palm.

“Yeh.  Bring it—”— _hic!_ – “Ohn.”

Nathan raised the glass to Pickles’ lips, the guy’s eyes bugging as he tried to focus on it but then shutting tight as Nathan poured the water slowly into his mouth, gulping it down his raw throat and just as much down his chin, dribbling over his shirt.  Nathan’s smirk curled as he watched Pickles hiccup through the water, gurgling and bubbling with sheer terror of death bolting across his face at the thought that it might not work, but he swallowed it back anyway, choking down mouthfuls that turned his face pink until the glass was finally empty.  Nathan pulled it away as Pickles swallowed the final mouthful, held in his cheeks, and beamed at him.

“You did it!  Hey!  Well done Pickles!” he gushed, giving a dumb clap as Pickles swayed there and shivered, making dull choking noises as his arms drifted back down again.  “See, I told ya!  No more hiccups, we’re done here.  I’m a genius.”

Pickles looked at him sickly, his face seeming to melt as his lips twisted, his stomach giving a low bubble from the black depths of his guts, and then lurched forward, putting his hands onto Nathan’s shoulders.  He looked about to declare something, to yell at Nathan, but he couldn’t summon the words to his opening mouth, his head swimming with squares and swirling fractals.  With a helpless gurgle held deep in his throat, Nathan staring back at him in horror, Pickles projectile puked onto Nathan’s sprawled lap.

“Oh!  Pickles!” grunted Nathan, his eyes bolted open as Pickles made an inhuman sound and the lukewarm liquid seeped through his jeans.  Going commando was great, usually, but times like these when the puke leached in around your balls made you wish you’d made a different choice.  By the second wave, Pickles had his face down in the bucket again, shaking and moaning as he brought up the water to a liquid splash and splutter, the steel bucket drawn across the tiles with a scrape.

“Oh, _Pickles._ ”  Nathan grabbed the bathroom mat and held it to his crotch, giving Pickles a desperate look.  A sound squirmed up from the depths of the bucket that was probably _sorry,_ and Nathan frowned.  Whatever  bad time he was having, Pickles was having worse – and it was his fault for playing with him.  Well, whatever – Nathan scooted around to his side, rubbing his back with both broad hands as Pickles heaved.  He could feel the rolls work their way up Pickles’ back muscles, ending in retches and bubbling as it leaked out of his swollen lips inside the bucket. 

“Oh, god,” said Pickles, muffled in the bucket, and Nathan leaned on his back, comforting in his weight.  His small hands clutched the steel rim, and he squeaked again, “Oh, _god,_ ” getting Nathan’s attention as he absent-mindedly stroked his back.

“Huh?”  Nathan was dislodged as Pickles suddenly sat up, his head raised high, the vomit tracing in rivulets down his neck as he stared into the bathroom light and then back into the bowl with his loosed dreads bouncing around his face.  Nathan leaned forward around his shoulder.  “What do ya see, Pickles?”

“Uh,” said Pickles, his eyes wide, and he pointed into the bucket.  “ _Look._ ”

Nathan looked.  There was nothing, just orange puke and the last rocks of melting ice from the ice bucket, the bright lumps of stomach bile floating in the foamy liquid.  Pickles’ hand shook as he pointed, motioned after the psychedelic curls he saw reflected oily in the surface, the moons of the bathroom’s lights, and he gave a whimpering moan.

“It’s fuckin’ _beautiful,_ ” he groaned, and then collapsed, Nathan only barely catching him against his chest before his head hit the tiles.  He tried to hold the wasted drummer up, limp like a ball-joint doll in his arms and flopping over himself, the last heaves shaking up his body and spilling down his chin to bleed dark into his shirt. 

Nathan wrapped his thick arms around Pickles’ chest, holding him belted like that up in his damp lap, and pressed his face to the man’s dreads, stinking of oil and henna colouring.  As he held him there, he felt one more hiccup bubble up through his body, and couldn’t stop his chuckling.  Another, burpy and jogging Pickles' diaphragm against his arms, the stench of puke filling the tiny bathroom, the lights blazing above.  Useless, fuck, his laughter shaking his huge chest as he embraced Pickles and felt the liquid drool over his forearms.  “Oh, Pickles,” he said one last time, and pressed a light kiss to the man’s slick neck.

“Nathan,” croaked Pickles in response, hanging limply in his arms, and Nathan grinned against his neck.

“You’re fucking awesome, do you know that.”

And he did know it, and so it was true.

**Author's Note:**

> Sneks slipped in a very liquid [watercolour illustration](https://sneks-n-bickles.tumblr.com/post/162700842291/once-a-cry-baby-always-a-cry-baby-drunk-doodles) (cw: self harm) inspired by this oneshot, and if you're a vomit fan you should check it and the rest of her art out.
> 
> comments greatly appreciated xo


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